It never happened
by AlysanaHiddlestoned
Summary: John's grief for Sherlock is unbearable.When he finds a document adressed to him on his passed away friend's laptop his world changes forever.WARNING:CHARACTER DEATH!And so much angst,I cried throughout writing this whole fic.I don't know if it's worth reading at all but it was the most depressing thing I've ever written in my entire life. EDIT: John is a bit OOC (THX reviewer :D)


„SHERLOOOCK!"

John woke up with a gasp. "Come on..." He covered his face with his hands. Every night...every damn night he dreamt of Sherlock falling from this rooftop. Every night he woke up screaming out his name in pain, tears running from his eyes.

How could he do something like this to him? Clearly he knew what John felt for him and he knew how precious he was to him. He knew their friendship was the only thing he had, the only thing he really cared about. Why did he do it?

John didn't hold back his tears anymore. He learned to live with them, to live with the pain he felt. The most precious human being, his beloved man – gone. Forever.

Every day he went to his grave and begged him to be alive. He already knew the times where almost no one visited the graveyard so he wouldn't have to hold back his tears. He never was a "crybaby", he was a soldier. He saw people die and he was used to it. That's why it never was hard for him to go to the crime scenes with Sherlock. He knew how people worked and that everyone would eventually die. But he never felt such pain in his life. And even after several months the pain wouldn't go away. He always told himself time would heal his wounds but it didn't.

John knew he would never have a friend like Sherlock again. He even wondered, if he would meet a person like him in his life. Someone who is of such an interesting, mysterious nature and still such a good and dear friend to him. Only to him.

It hurt to think of the time they spent together. The memories flew into his mind and he couldn't blend them away. He remembered their last evening together. Sherlock was sitting at the table, writing something on his laptop. John came home after having a bad date, once again, knowing Sherlock would never answer his feelings and trying to get on with his life. He never managed it.

He remembered how Sherlock looked at him this day, as though he would like to tell him something, as though he knew, something bad would happen. John noticed, but never asked.

He remembered their last diner. They went to the Chinese restaurant in their street. They often went there, usually when they both couldn't sleep. He remembered Sherlock laughing and them mocking each other this day. It seemed so far away now...Days long gone...

Every day John woke up, he felt more empty. The only thing that kept him alive was his job and Mrs. Hudson visiting him from time to time. And of course the daily trips to the graveyard. He used to sit there, talking to Sherlock's tombstone, telling him his grief and telling him what he really felt. But it was too late for him. He would never hear his confessions, he would never hear his voice, filled with pain, and he would never hear him grieving for him.

John remembered going back to their apartment in Baker Street to get his stuff. He remembered sitting there and crying. He remembered Mrs. Hudson talking to him but he didn't remember anything she said because his mind wouldn't work. John collected his stuff and couldn't resist taking some of Sherlock's things with him. Mrs. Hudson didn't mind and of course the police would know, but they haven't come for him yet.

John looked at Sherlock's violin lying on his table. He pictured him playing it. He remembered his grief for Irene and asked himself, if he would grief for him as much as for her if he would be gone. There were so many things he didn't know and so many things he couldn't ask him anymore. His leg got worse again and his left hand was shaking constantly, making it hard for him to write his blogs or to write anything at all.

John sat up on the bed and switched on the lights. He couldn't sleep anymore anyway. He stood up, taking his walking stick, and went to his closet. Sherlock's things were hidden in a carton under his clothes. He never dared to browse his phone or his laptop, but the pain wouldn't go away anyway and he was curious...

John took Sherlock's laptop, sat down on his bed again and started it. He wondered if Sherlock had it protected with a password and was really surprised when it started without having to solve any puzzles. It made him smile a bit. It was a long time ago when he actually smiled.

John felt like a stalker, wanting to browse through his passed away best friend's stuff, but he couldn't help his curiosity. "Hm...strange..." there were no shortcuts on his desktop. No icons, except one. A document. "For John?..." his heart was racing. Why didn't he do this earlier?!

He clicked on the icon, hands shaking so much he feared to drop the laptop. The document said:

"Hello John,

If you read this, something bad happened to me or you are just browsing my laptop again. If it's the second case, please shut it now. I will always know what you did. If it's the first one, please read on.

I write it in despair. I never felt like this before. The world was never safe and I knew it wouldn't be easy for me all the time. I don't know what terrible thing happened so I can only guess. Even if I've got a brilliant mind, I can't see into the future. No matter what happened, don't be afraid John. If I'm gone, you will still never be alone. You are the first friend I've ever had and you are the most important person to me. I love the time we spent together and I cherish our conversations. Although you were never as smart as me, I had much fun with you, a regular person.

Now I will come to the point. It's not my style to say or to write something like this. I don't know anything about feelings but I know that I've never felt this way before we met. I am struggling with this feeling every day and I don't even care if I scare you with this information. You know me, I would say anything straight into your face but this is something I want to keep for myself until the time has come.

John Watson, I love you from the bottom of my heart. I never knew how this would feel like but now I do. I could never live without you again. I love my job as a detective but I always try to keep you away from danger. I want to protect you. I know you are shocked now, we were never in a relationship like this. But I thought it would be best for you to know, if I'm ever going to be gone or in danger.

I love you. Remember it. Always."

Johns tears were dropping on the keyboard. He knew, the whole house would hear him sobbing but he didn't hold it back. Sherlock felt the same way for him and never told him. They were in love with each other and didn't know. Now he was gone and it was never going to happen, they would never going to be together and only their love and John's tears remained.

There was nothing to comfort John anymore. There was nothing to keep him alive. Now that he knew it, he had finally decided what to do.

He grabbed his coat and gun, hurrying to grab a taxi. He told the driver his destination and realised he forgot his walking stick again. But he wouldn't need it anymore anyway.

He paid the driver and exited the car, almost running across the graveyard. Even in the dark he knew exactly where Sherlock's tombstone was, he knew the way by heart. Once he stood there, looking down at his grave, he fell on his knees and pulled out his gun, his tears blurring his sight. John placed the gun on his forehead and whispered: "Sherlock...I will always be with you...we will always be together now" and he smiled. He was happy.

He pulled the trigger.

His body went numb, his thoughts stopping. John's body fell onto the ground, face directed at the sky. He was smiling.

A dark silhouette approached John's body. It knelt beside him, staring into his face, from which the life has faded away completely. The figure bent down and whispered into his ear: "I'm so sorry"

The person placed it's lips on John's and a tear dropped on the dead man's face, mixing up with the blood.

Sherlock Holmes stood up, looked at the body of his beloved man, turned around and disappeared.

No one has ever seen him again.


End file.
